weary, happy still.
Title: weary, happy still.
Pairing: Arthur/Gwen
Length: 1000~
A/N: Missing scenes from The Wicked Day - written for the merlinflufffest like, last year or something. Re-edited. [Title from Gracious, by Ben Howard].
Disclaimer: Dis show is not mine to claim.
If Guinevere didn’t know any better, she would say he was drunk.
She watches from a corner, her arm bumping against Merlin’s - as he wraps a tispy Elyan in a tight hug, whispering all sorts of nonsense into his ear; as he ruffles Gwaine’s hair; as he saunters up to Percival and whacks his biceps and challenges him to a casual duel to the death.
But he’s not.
And so, as he half-skips up to her, taking the occasional triumphant bow in answer to drunken claps, she can only put his joviality down to happiness.
She’s okay with that.
He hasn’t been this happy in months.
His grin stays plastered on his face as he addresses her; and she feels Merlin disappear rapidly from her side - half-amusement, half-exhaustion.
“Guinevere!”
He doesn’t slur her name, but he does come quite close - so that the ties on his leather vest whisper over the top of her breasts.
“Arthur”, she mutters, trying to hold back a smile, “Happy Birthday!”
“Thank you! I’m having lots of fun…”
She clears her throat. Don’t. Laugh.
“I’m glad”
There’s a moment of silence, and she’s pretty sure it stems from Arthur forgetting what he was going to say next. He’s otherwise preoccupied, searching her eyes for amusement, whispering his fingers over the edge of her sleeves.
“Thank you”, he says eventually, slightly too loud. “For the present this morning, I’ll make good use of it.”
She blushes.
“It wasn’t that great…”
“No, I was very impressed!” he asserts, indignantly.
(He had come to her house that morning, after the council meeting, before holding court. Had appeared in his cloak and smile and asked her how her morning was.
And she had bit her lip. And smiled. And muttered happy birthday with a turn of her head. And they momentarily delved into shyness. Wrestling with sentences and gifts and how much they wanted to kiss each other.
But then Gwen remembered that she loves him. That he loves her. That things had changed from last year - when all she could give him was a nod and a smile and a muttered congratulations.
So she pressed a kiss to his shoulder and raced to her bed, delving underneath and pulling out a wrapped sword, handing it to him with a blush.
She whispered that she made it, salvaged the best metal she could find and kicked her brother and the new blacksmith out of the workshop for the day.
And he ran his hands along the edge. Gripped the hilt. Flew it through the air with an air of delight. Kissed her mouth. Looked thoroughly impressed.)
“You don’t have to use it”, she says, “Not my for sake…”
“No! I love it. I love you.”
She stares at him.
But he’s drunk on happiness and birthdays and her, and he gets quickly distracted by the new music playing through the hall, the slamming of couples’ feet as they circle joyfully around the seats. And he thinks that looks awfully fun, and he’s never danced with Gwen before, so he kisses the side of her mouth and pulls her towards the middle of circle.
And, god, how hilariously bad he dances, feet tripping over each other, hands slipping in out and of hers, tongue out in concentration as he manoeuvres his body towards hers in time to the music.
And Uther’s not here. And Agravaine’s given up. So what’s wrong with loving him for a few hours?
They don’t hear the smattering of applause for them at the end of the dance, because they’ve already left. Ensconsced behind a tapestry somewhere in a not very subtle manner, their body’s pressed against each other.
And they stay there, for half the night, their feet poking out under the tapestry, wrapped around each other’s legs. And it’s only when the fatal sedative starts to kick in, and his kisses get tired, that she presses her mouth to his shoulder and listens to his complaints and goes to fetch Merlin.
And she dreams about it for a few hours, stealing Gwaine’s empty bed and burying her head in the pillow.
*
But then there’s bells.
And screams.
She crawls out of bed and shakes Gwaine - lying half-naked on the floor - and runs through the castle. Past their tapestry. Past the messy hall. Past the midnight memories.
And the king’s dying.
And there’s nothing they can do.
*
There are whispers of long live the king a night or so later and it’s too soon for Arthur, so he escapes the dark room and she follows. All the way through the lower town. All the way to her house. To her small bed.
And he lies down. And curls up. Like a child.
And her pillows soak up his grief and his fear and she climbs in next to him. Her shoes knock against his boots. Her legs tangle around his. And she whispers condolences into his shoulder.
*
And he’s not there two hours later.
So she makes breakfast.
*
And then he smiles. Nervously.
And she fixes his cloak and whispers a joke into his cheek and then sweeps away - clad in lavender.
And she almost reaches his door before he clears his throat.
“Your turn next…” he smiles.
*
And then he’s king.